Itia Monstrum
by Tey'Imena
Summary: In which Kirk did not escape unscathed from the Ice Monster of Delta Vega - and it has some, um, interesting effects on him. Spock doesn't realize it, but he's actually the focus of these effects. Kirk/Spock [sorry folks, this one is on SERIOUS hiatus while I earn my teaching credential.]
1. one

Another kink meme fill. And oh yeah, this one is DEFINITELY slash. Kirk/Spock, in that order. Ye have been warned, and it will get raunchy. Er, eventually.

Shame? What shame?

Also, _Itia Monstrum_ is Latin for 'Ice Monster.' Aren't my names so creative? ;P

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**Itia Monstrum**

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It was a tiny thing; a scratch, really, and with Kirk's record, scratches like this one didn't really register anymore, and if they did, he didn't care. It was a _scratch_, hardly breaking the surface. Okay, there was a little bit of blood, but Jim never even noticed _that_ until almost a full day or more after defeating Nero, destroying the Narada, and saving Earth. And by that point, he was covered in blood and bruises from several other instances (not to mention his broken ribs from all the jumping around he did in that fight with Nero and his fucked-up second in command Ayel), and all those other injuries were a helluva lot more important (they hurt more, too).

So Jim ignored the little scratch on his ankle from where the ice-beast had almost eaten him. And really, in the fervor over everything that had happened (and it was almost too much, for just a day to contain it all) and all the recovery required, who could blame him?

It was months before anything was noticed:

First to say anything was Sulu.

"Captain, are you... taller?" he asked one day after fencing practice (Sulu had taken to teaching Jim the finer points of fencing after watching the Captain take one too many fists to the face).

"What?" Kirk blinked, a bit nonplussed. "Taller? I don't know; why?"

"Well," Sulu said, rubbing his chin as he regarded Kirk, "it's just that I've been having to readjust a number of my strikes and blocks with you; I keep needing to bring my blows higher for the overheads and your downswings have become a bit more powerful, which would make sense if you were getting taller. Plus, your pants and shirtsleeves have been getting shorter."

"Huh," Kirk replied, draping his towel behind his neck. "Let's find out?" he offered, turning to head for the showers. "Bones'll probably be able to tell us."

After the shower, when they get to Sickbay, Bones grouses at them for a few minutes before complying.

"And while you're here you're getting that damn check-up you skipped last month," the CMO said, pointing threateningly at Jim with one hand while fiddling with a tricorder in the other.

"Aww, Bones!" Jim half-whined. "C'mon, can't I do that later?" All he got in reply was a flat stare from Bones and stifled chuckles from Sulu. "Fine, fine," Jim grumped over the beeping of the tricorder.

"Well Jim," McCoy said a few moments later, "Sulu was right, and you should start replicating new uniforms. You've grown six inches, at least."

"Six inches?" Jim blinked. "Really?"

"That's a growth spurt," Sulu said in some admiration.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "Well, that's taken care of, back to work!" And he scampered out of Sickbay before McCoy could stop him.

"Dammit, Jim!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It's another two months (and Jim grows another inch, making him very noticeably taller than Spock now; which is actually rather disconcerting to some of the crew) before anybody notices the next bit, and that's only because Jim manages to return form an away mission _not_ bruised or bloody or beaten in other ways. It's Ensign Abendroth who tells the crew what happened, as McCoy has Kirk sequestered away in the Sickbay running all the tests he can, because God knows that the day James Tiberius Kirk comes back from a dangerous away mission is the day that all should be very, very careful.

And according to Abendroth it was indeed a rather dangerous time down on the planet's surface, and seeing as there were two other red shirts that went with them and didn't come back (which _was_ normal for away missions with Kirk), this was not disputed, no matter the Captain's miraculously unscathed survival.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The planet didn't look that dangerous, really it didn't. Who would ever suspect small, fluffy, rabbit-like animals?

Though, if they'd known that the 'rabbits' had teeth like beavers, a mean streak a mile wide, and a taste for meat (and especially human necks), well then! Everything would have turned out differently now, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, none of the away team had known any of this until the first red shirt (Ensign Abasi) went down, victim to what looked like a white and gray spotted mini-lop. A British Giant look-a-like took down the other red shirt, Ensign Vinci.

It was a brown Dwarf that headed with unnatural speed and a high pitched cry (just like the other two that took down Vinci and Abasi) toward Abendroth, so quickly that he could only hear the thing coming at him and he knew, he _knew_, that this was going to be it and why oh why had he volunteered to go on an away mission with the Captain? Captain Kirk was a wonderful man and an admirable Captain, but he was hell on the Security personnel and really, on anybody who went planet-side with him.

So when Abendroth didn't feel the sharp, beaver-like teeth sinking into his neck, his eyes popped open, and the sight before him... well, it was unexpected, to say the least. Captain Kirk stood in front of Abendroth, in a firm, steady defensive stance, left arm extended away from his body as if it had struck something, and the carnivorous brown Dwarf rabbit-creature was... about sixteen feet to the left of them, which led Abendroth to believe that Kirk had... well, smacked the creature away with his bare hands.

_But... the rabbit things are... How's the Captain that bloody __**fast**__?_ Abendroth wondered absently, still not quite believing that he was alive, and _saved by Captain Kirk, trouble magnet of the Universe_.

"Kirk to Enterprise! Beam us up now!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"So yeah," Abendroth concludes to his rather rapt audience, "carnivorous rabbits with super-speed and the Captain's just as fast and I tell you I will never see anything weirder in my life."

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_TBC_

Can anybody spot the extra major geekery in here?


	2. two

Chapter two! or, What The Hell Is Wrong With Jim Kirk?

Also, GoldilocksSocks and Veglma win the mini-geek contest from the previous chapter. YAY MONTY PYTHON.

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**Itia Monstrum**

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"What the hell happened down there, Jim?" Bones growled as he went over his Captain and best friend with the determination of a man actively looking for injury. "Two ensigns dead and you unscathed? Abendroth is saying you're the only reason he got out of there alive!"

"I dunno, Bones," Jim replied, oddly subdued, and McCoy latches onto this. "I just... I dunno."

"What's going on, Jim," McCoy said calmly, his voice low and gravelly in his concern, but also professional in its crisp decisiveness to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. "No offense, but it's usually you _being_ saved on away missions, not you _doing_ the saving. And from what I've heard from Abendroth and you, those rabbit-creatures were damn fast."

"Yeah. But so am I."

Bones studied the subdued man before him for several moments. "Okay, yeah, that's weird," he said finally. "But not unwelcome, in this case, and especially if you can keep it up and use it in other situations."

"Bones..."

And there it is, the tone that McCoy has never heard from Jim except maybe twice, and all his senses are on alert now, because suddenly this is even more serious than it was before - Jim sounds _worried._

"I'm stronger, too," Jim continued, still looking at his knees where they bent over the edge of the biobed, leaving his legs to dangle in the air between bed and floor. "I tested it out, and I can bench press over a thousand pounds."

Bones stared in disbelief.

"One thousand... _over_ one thousand? With your bare hands? Dammit, Jim!" At a loss for anything else to say, Bones repeated, "One thousand pounds?" then continued with, "Jim, that's... that's the same as the twenty-first century world record, and it hasn't been topped since except by a couple pounds. How much exactly can you lift?"

"With one hand or two?"

"Two hands."

"One thousand six hundred and seventy-two pounds."

Silence. Then,

"_Dammit_, Jim." Another pause, during which Jim still refused to raise his eyes and McCoy continued to stare down at his best friend. "... how the hell can you lift that much without your heart giving out? You don't have the physique to lift that kind of weight."

"I don't know, Bones."

"I hear an 'and' in there. What else has happened?" Bones demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm your CMO, and your friend, dammit. Tell me!"

"You mean about other than being freakishly fast or super strong?"

"Yes, Jim, other than that."

Jim mumbled something after several seconds, and as experienced a doctor as he was, even McCoy couldn't interpret it.

"Say again?" Bones prompted calmly, quietly, determined to wait as long as necessary to hear whatever it was his Captain had been hiding.

Jim was silent a few moments longer, before taking a deep breath and saying, "I... I smell things better. Like, everything's almost too strong. I can..." And here Jim blushes, and McCoy stared in fascination because Jim Kirk never blushes, "I can even smell, y'know, body stuff."

"'Body stuff'... You mean like - ?"

"Yeah," Jim said with a nod. "And my hearing's better, and my sight and I'm more sensitive to touching things and tasting things and..."

"Your senses have been heightened?" Bones asked finally, after another several moments of silence. This was... he had no words to describe the medical impossibilities going on here. Then again, it _was_ James Tiberius Kirk, and God knows that the Universe _loves_ throwing impossibilities at the one man who would make them all possible and real.

"Yeah," Jim said, nodding. "All of 'em, and sometimes..." Here he paused, and looked up at Bones through thick blond eyelashes.

"The headaches three months ago, and since," McCoy said with dawning insight. "Your senses were too strong, and it gave you those headaches that we thought were a reaction to the vegetation from Gielbhert." Jim nodded in reply. "You never do anything by halves, do you, Jim?" McCoy asked in almost affectionate exasperation. Jim grinned wryly, finally looking up from his knees.

"Guess not," he joked dryly. "Diagnosis, doc?"

Bones snorted. "You need a drink," he said succinctly, reaching into a nearby cabinet to pull out two glasses. A bottle of Saurian brandy appeared out of a different drawer, and was generously poured into the two glasses.

"To the Superman of the Enterprise," McCoy toasted dryly, raising his glass.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Bones let the crew - and Commander Spock - know that the Captain really was perfectly fine before he and Jim got too soused to be good for anything. It was over the course of their drinking that the details of these changes began to come out.

"So, Chekov, he smells like vodka, right? But he smells like snow, too, y'know?" Jim told Bones after the second brandy. He's not drunk yet, he just feels the need to talk because he knows this is never going to go any farther than this room, than Bones' office right here.

"Snow and vodka, huh?" Bones said into his glass.

"Yeah. Sulu smells like weed, sometimes, but mostly it's just gingko. Scotty, it's grease, sweat, sandwiches, and Chekov, actually." Bones sputtered at that. "And yeah, I can smell that, too," Jim continued blithely. "But mostly Scotty smells like heather and wide open spaces. Uhura's got this musty scent, but it's nice; like a library." Jim fell silent then, staring into his brandy before taking a huge sip.

"You smell like peaches," Jim said finally. "Peaches and thunderstorms," he adds before McCoy can sputter and growl about how emasculating it is to smell like _peaches_. "You smell like medicine, too, and sometimes you smell sterile." Jim paused a moment. "I hate that," he said, almost vehemently. "I hate it when you smell sterilized and don't have a scent. 'S not right."

And he is a little drunk now, but neither of them minds, not really. After a few more moments of silence, McCoy finally asked,

"What does Spock smell like?"

And Jim is quiet, again, but there's a different sense to this quiet, a sense that Bones would have caught onto much more easily had he been sober; he would have caught on and realized that something was changing right here, and right now. Something important.

"Sand," Jim said, almost in a growl. "Hot sand, like a desert, and steel. Sharp, tangy..." The word _Alien_ hovered between them, but Jim silently added _Exotic_, and McCoy couldn't hear that one.

"What about you?"

Jim shrugged. "Can't smell myself," he muttered, downing the last of his third (or was it fourth?) brandy. "Hear my heart and breathing, though. Hear everyone else's, too, an' if I look close I can see their pulse." He reached out, poured himself another, and took a swallow. "'S crazy, man."

Bones nodded in agreement, then sighed and reached into a drawer for alco-block hypos. He took one and pressed it to his own neck, depressing the trigger with the familiar _hiss_ and _click_. The blocker took effect quickly, blocking any more alcohol from being absorbed into his system and clearing out any that had been, sobering him up relatively quickly.

"Come on, Jim," McCoy said heavily, pulling out another alco-block, "you need that physical exam, now."

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_TBC_

Wonder what McCoy's going to find in that physical…

_Reviews make the author happy, and happy authors write more!_


	3. three

Whoo, chapter three! or, Jim Kirk is Kind of Screwed, But Not in The Fun Way.

Also, WOW. I've never had this many responses so quickly to a story before! It makes an author feel special.

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**Itia Monstrum  
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For the most part, Jim's physical went pretty much like it usually did when he was healthy; it was just a check-up. However, now that Bones knew his friend was living out a twenty-first century X-Men story (what? His daughter liked them), it was bit more of a _specialized_ check-up.

"Squeeze," McCoy said, looking at the readout attached to the bar in Jim's hand. "It'll measure the pressure and tell me your grip strength, and I'll see if I can correlate that to your new strength."

So Jim bore down on the bar one-handed, squeezing hard enough to cause the tendons to stand out in ridges on the backs of his hands.

"And release." There were a few muted beeps and whirs from the readout in Bones' hands, before, "Dammit, Jim, I said _squeeze_, not crush my equipment and make me order replacements," growled its way out of his throat. Bones stared down at the now misshapen pressure bar, the imprints of Jim's fingers clear.

"Sorry Bones," Jim said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with his other hand. "I, uh, guess I don't know my own strength."

"I'll say," the CMO muttered, making a note on his PADD. "You're stronger than Spock," he said offhandedly after a few moments, and Jim started, blinking once.

"I guess I am," the blond man said slowly. "I... hadn't really thought of that."

"Yeah, well, at least this time you'll be able to fight back when you piss the hobgoblin off."

"He only tried to strangle me once!" Jim protested.

"Once!" Bones threw up his hands in disgust. "Only tried to strangle you _once_, but then again, I'm not surprised seeing as you convince every other sentient - and a few non-sentient! - species to do the exact same thing!"

Jim pouted. "But now I can defend myself," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said so yourself."

"Dammit, Jim, don't try to feed me my own words!" McCoy snapped, even though he had said as much only moments earlier.

"That's pretty much it for the physical tests I can run," he said after a second of silence. There seemed to be a lot of those lately. "Just let me run some blood and fluid work to see if there's anything else going on."

"What about the neuro-scan?"

"Already run," McCoy said in reply to Jim's question. "Your head is fine, though the brain activity has increased some. Not to dangerous levels, or in places that would be concerning." McCoy's voice began to fall into the smooth, practiced tone he used when reciting information, which soothed Jim, as it meant there wasn't anything he needed to worry about on this topic. "Most of the lobes in your cerebrum have increased their activity - the frontal, occipital, temporal, and parietal lobes all show signs of higher usage, as well as what might as well be called slight mutations."

"_Mutations?_" Jim asked in an almost strangled voice, startled out of the comfort Bones' 'doctor voice' had provided.

"Minor ones; mostly just enlargement and an increase in synapse function. All harmless, pretty much, and they all look like they've reached the peak of whatever they were going to do." As he continued to speak, McCoy readied a vial to receive the blood he was about to draw. "The cerebellum also shows increased activity, all of which explains the heightened senses, the strength, and your speed. There were a couple of odd blips, which the blood work should clear up." Having taken the amount he needed, McCoy pressed a gauze swatch over the small pinprick left behind on Jim's arm from the drawing needle. He turned to insert the vial into another scanner, and set the program. "We'll know in a couple minutes after the sequencer and other programs have a go at it."

"I really do feel fine, Bones," Jim said.

"Yeah, yeah. Let me make sure, okay?" McCoy groused, watching the machinery.

The two waited in comfortable silence for the sequencer to finish readying the data, and it let them know it was finished with an almost musical trill. McCoy stepped forward to press a few buttons, bringing up the data and schematics on the view screen. He perused them silently for a few moments, before swearing quietly.

"What?" Jim asked, on alert. He'd been unconsciously keeping track of McCoy's scent, and he realized that right now, his best friend friend did _not_ smell pleased. Jim filed away the information that emotion changes a person's scent away for later examination, and then refocused on the problem at hand: something in his blood work wasn't right. "What is it, Bones?"

"Your sequences have been changed," the CMO spat, staring angrily at the screen. "Your fucking DNA sequences have had bits removed, other pieces added, some of them _rewritten_ and there's some foreign strand running around in there that looks a lot like goddamn _Itia Monstrum_ DNA sequences!"

A sick sensation coiled in Jim's stomach, oily yet heavy, and he swallowed convulsively, trying to wet a suddenly dry mouth. "What?" he asked, licking his lips nervously. "What does that mean?"

"It _means_ that you're still Jim Kirk, but you're also... evolved or improved or whatever word you want to use. Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor not a geneticist or a xeno-zoologist!" Bones ran a hand through his hair, still staring at the screen in frustration.

"Wait a minute," Jim said suddenly, brow furrowed in thought. "_Itia Monstrum_ is... Ice Monster."

"Yeah, so?" Bones turned to stare at Jim, still grumpy and frustrated and upset and, though he'd never verbally admit it, _worried_.

"Delta Vega," Jim breathed, blue eyes opening wide, so very wide. "The ice monster on Delta Vega that almost ate me!"

"The _what_ that almost did _what_ to you?" McCoy demanded, not having heard this before.

"When Spock marooned me on Delta Vega! There was an ice monster, huge red thing. I couldn't shake it, and it almost ate me. Old Spock chased it off." The two of them stared at each other, and then Bones yanked out his PADD and began to type furiously upon it.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked.

"I'm pullin' up all the statistics and traits of _Itia Monstrum_; what else?" Bones growled. "All this crap has been happening since Delta Vega and now you tell me one of the bloody things almost fucking _ate_ you. I ain't really sure what I'm lookin' for, but maybe there's a connection."

It was the work of moments to pull up all the specs of _Itia Monstrum_, and lo and behold, there were all of Jim's, uh, 'improvements.'

"Well, that explains why I couldn't get away from the thing," Jim mused. "Other than the whole part about it being a gajillion times bigger than me. And the two hundred eyes."

"It _would_ explain the strength and speed, I guess," McCoy said reluctantly, still staring (almost fascinated, in a vaguely horrified way) at the picture of the creature in question. "You say it tried to _eat you?_"

"And not in the fun way."

"Shut up, Jim."

"You asked!" Jim burst into laughter as Bones glared at him for several seconds before turning back to the DNA sequencer. The CMO looked back and forth between the sequencer and his PADD for several moments, moments that Jim used to get himself back under control (and before his laughter got hysterical; in this situation, who could blame him?).

"Yeah, well, I hope you like the new you, then," Bones said, shoving his PADD into a pocket.

"You mean...?"

"Yeah. You're stuck, kid. Too much of your DNA has been altered, and in a way I'm not familiar with. And with the added strand of _Itia Monstrum_..." McCoy shook his head. "Can't engineer it backwards, Jim. It might kill you, even if someone could figure out how."

"So you're saying that this is permanent."

"Yeah."

"Okay," Jim said, slowly, "okay. I can deal with this. I mean, maybe I'll stop being the universe's bitch all the time now. 'Cuz I can fight back now. Right?"

"You'll need training, and you're going to have to watch yourself carefully, Jim. Obviously you've been able to monitor and modify your reactions so far, but now you need to make those into habits so you don't hurt anyone else," Bones cautioned. "With your speed and strength, if you use them wrong just once, or accidentally..." he let the end of his sentence trail off in warning, and Jim nodded.

"I get it," Jim said quietly. And he did - he could injure his own crew now, possibly even the ship if he let himself get out of control. And Jim had no desire to do that; he wanted to be a good captain, despite his lackadaisical and 'joie de vivre' attitude.

" - so Abendroth has already let the crew know about your super speed, we might as well tell them about the strength, and - " Bones continued, only to be interrupted by Jim.

"Can we... can we keep the senses thing between us, though?" he asked, blue eyes serious and ever so slightly tinted with trepidation.

"'Course," Bones agreed gruffly, pulling out his PADD once more to make a note on it. "I'll put it in your confidential file, but I won't tell."

Jim grinned in relief. "Thanks, Bones," he said, hopping off the biobed to clap his friend on the shoulder. "So I'm free to go."

"Get out of here," McCoy said with a dismissive wave, "and try to stay out of anymore trouble."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It was another month before Jim's senses finally settled, and he became used to their extreme sensitivity. Over the course of this month, and the one following, he put them to the test with McCoy's help. He also put his speed and strength to the test, and to good use by helping out around the ship - and entertaining some of the shipboard children. It became a rather common sight to see the Captain staggering about the lower family rec decks, bedecked with giggling, chattering children.

He also came in handy during away missions now, which weren't quite so dangerous anymore. At least, not on the mind-boggling status they used to be. Oh, the Captain was still something of a trouble magnet, but now that Jim Kirk could essentially take care of himself and those around him, the missions just… didn't seem all that dangerous anymore (everyone still trained as if they were, though, just in case).

All these changes didn't bother Jim, though. No, it was something else driving Jim slowly crazy - _Spock_. Or, more specifically, his _senses_ were driving him crazy by fixating on the Vulcan First Officer with a mindless determination.

At first, it hadn't been all that noticeable – just a slightly heightened awareness of the Vulcan, but only to the point where Jim simply felt pleased to see his First Officer. And really, why shouldn't he? They'd gotten off to a rocky start, true (and if that wasn't an understatement then Jim didn't know what else to call it), but over the months since, Jim felt that he and Spock had at least come to a sort of truce; almost a friendship. A working friendship, but friendship nonetheless. So feeling pleased at Spock's presence and attention was a perfectly normal thing.

Until _that_ away mission. The one Kirk was, hopefully, never going to think of again. Suffice to say, it brought to light that Kirk wasn't just pleased with the softening affections of his stoic First – he was also rather, um, possessive of them, as well.

But only a little bit. Really. And it was perfectly normal, after all, since _he_ was Spock's _friend_, dammit. Of course he would feel upset when Spock wasn't paying attention to him.

But then it started getting worse.

When Jim had told McCoy about the scents of the Bridge crew, he had meant as if everyone was wearing a light, almost imperceptible but essential perfume. Nice perfumes, too. He hadn't told McCoy about his reaction to Spock's scent, light and faint as it had been (he still had dreams, dreams of heat and fire and sand, so much burning, burning sand, swirling around towers of steel and glinting under an alien sun and wrapping him up in its embrace), but was almost about ready to go to the CMO now. Things were starting to get out of control.

Jim couldn't hardly be on the bridge before the thrumming, rapid beat of Spock's heart filled his ears with a low hum, vibrating straight into his very psyche. He couldn't be _anywhere_ in the Vulcan's presence without that distracting scent of sand and steel creeping into his nose and winding itself around all his senses. Constantly, Jim had the urge to brush his fingertips along Spock's cheekbones, or through his hair, or to simply _touch_ the Vulcan, even on the hand or the arm (Jim did give in to those urges; he already touched those areas, so why not just a little more?).

What was unnerving, however, and finally drove the Captain to his best friend's office, was the urge to maim anyone who came into Spock's presence. When Chekov – Chekov, for Christ's sake – asked a simple, innocent question that required the Vulcan to look at the navigator's console, Jim curled his hands around the armrests of his chair until the knuckles turned white. _Chekov_. And Jim wanted to leap out his chair and yank Spock away from the Russian whiz kid, all while shouting, _Hands off!_

When an ensign from the Science labs came to the bridge with a message for Spock, she accidentally brushed his shoulder with her hand, and Jim had to force a coughing fit to keeping from snarling. And that wasn't the last time, either.

It was a long series of events rather similar to those that landed Jim in McCoy's office, a drink of _something_ (all Jim cared about was its alcohol content, and there was _plenty_ of that) cradled before him.

"Fuck, Bones, I can't get him out of my head and he doesn't even have the courtesy to fucking mind-meld with me to even get himself there!" Jim burst out, rather drunk. That was probably the easiest way for him to speak about this, as it certainly made his tongue much, much looser.

McCoy remained silent, nursing his own drink and waiting for Jim to spill what was bothering him.

"He's always there, and I can't go into a fucking room without wanting to bash him over the head and drag him off into a cave. Cave. Fuck! It was the cave on Delta Vega where that monster almost ate me until Old Spock drove it off." Jim hit his head lightly against the desk of his best friend, a groan issuing from his mouth. "Old Spock. Spock. _Fuck_."

"You're telling me you want to jump the hobgoblin?" McCoy asked, almost incredulous but not quite. He, like many of the crew of the _Enterprise_, had seen the writing on the wall long ago. He had some reservations about it all (after all, how could he forget that stallion conversation?), but it seemed like Jim was finally clueing in. If in a slightly different way than McCoy had expected.

Jim snorted.

"Not just 'jump', Bones," and the CMO _knew_ that the only reason Jim was being quite this candid was because of the alcohol, "I want to _own_ him. I want to put a collar of bruises on his neck so everyone knows he's _mine_. Hell, I want my name tattooed on him, sometimes. So that _he_ knows he's mine, too. Dammit, Bones!" And here Jim stood up angrily, knocking over the chair he'd been sitting in, and began to pace.

McCoy stared at his friend, his drink almost forgotten. The sheer ragged intensity in Jim's voice – from possessiveness to desperation to even panic – shocked him.

"I'm on a hair trigger in general, Bones. I mean, not just about Spock, either. I get possessive over the whole damn crew, but Jesus, the way I get over my First Officer… my First Officer! There's gotta be something in the regs against this, isn't there?" Jim kept pacing, from one end of the room to the other, back and forth and back and forth like some wild, caged animal. "My First Officer is driving me mad!"

That last was said on a shout, and Jim slumped back into his seat, head dropping into his hands.

"I _need_ him, Bones," Jim said after several long seconds of silence. "It's more than just want – I could deal with that!" Jim sounded almost hysterical at this point, and McCoy could see how that would be possible – plus, Jim _had_ had a lot of alcohol. "But this – I don't know what to do with this! I _can't_ deal with this; he doesn't hardly like me, we're just starting to be friends and I'm getting insanely possessive and _dammit_, Bones, what the _fuck_ am I going to do?!"

"You're pretty much shit out of luck, ain't you, kid?" McCoy said, not answering Jim's question. He took a long swallow of his own drink, and set the glass down on the desk with a soft '_tunk._' Jim tossed him a flat glare.

"Seriously, Bones!"

Jim, McCoy mused, was surprisingly coherent for being so very drunk (and yes, McCoy knew almost exactly how drunk his friend was; after all, he'd been pouring the drinks). The kid was also being embarassingly truthful. Usually he was just an incredibly happy drunk, but this must have been bothering him something _fierce_ to keep steady even while under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol.

So really, McCoy was actually starting to feel sympathetic for the poor kid.

"Look," he said finally, "so you've got a raging case of the hots for the hobgoblin – which I still think is weird, but then, you've always been a little crazy – so why not just do something about it?"

"Bones," Jim said very carefully, "it's _Spock_. You just don't…" And here Jim made some odd, flailing hand motion, "You just _don't_, okay?"

"Okay," McCoy said simply, not bothering to argue. "You're the one with all the unresolved sexual tension driving you mad. I'll just sit back and watch the show."

"You suck."

"Not you I don't," McCoy quipped, calmly taking a sip of his drink.

"Bones!"

______________________

_TBC_

Will Bones Stop Being Snarky? Is Spock going to Get A Clue? Is Kirk going to Get His Man?

Find out next episode! Same channel, same time!

_Reviews make the author happy, and happy authors write more!_


	4. four

Whoo, chapter four! or, Jim Kirk Finally Goes Crazy, and Spock Starts to Get a Clue.

Also, sorry about the wait! D:

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**Itia Monstrum**  
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It only got worse after that, until Jim was sorely tempted to actually let Bones hypo him into something resembling oblivion. Anything to escape this burgeoning obsession with his Vulcan First Officer. He could hardly concentrate anymore, what with the insistent mental push to maim anyone who came near Spock.

Of course, Spock was _completely_ oblivious, and Jim wasn't sure whether this was a Good Thing or a Bad Thing. At the moment he was considering it both, because on the one hand, Jim wasn't receiving any encouragement, and Jim _knew_ that at the slightest hint of interest from his First Officer, he would be _all over the man._ On the _other_ hand, Spock being oblivious meant that Jim was going slowly crazy with all his mental fantasies and there was really only so much he could put Bones through in terms of drunken rant sessions about this whole mess.

And Jim had been _good_. He'd kept his hands to himself, mostly, both when it came to touching Spock (hands, ears, that _mouth_, running his human fingers over the lines of Spock's body, down his sides and up his spine, tracing muscles...) and when it came to, uh, 'touching' anybody who touched or even came near the Vulcan. Jim was being very good, not snarling or snapping at those unfortunate crew members!

But it made sense, now, for Jim to be possessive of Spock, even more than just the irrational (Jim could not believe he was using that word, sometimes) want of sexual need. Spock was controlled, Spock was rational, Spock was calm and level and able to think clearly at almost all times. He was everything that Jim was not, really; the other half to Jim's wildly see-sawing persona (Jim had once heard the two of them compared to a ship at sea and its anchor - two guesses as to whom was which). They were both intelligent, and Jim's vanity prompted him admit that they were both quite handsome individuals - and hey, it was true! They already had a good working relationship, regardless of the rocky start, so why not progress to an excellent personal relationship, too?

All these logical reasons for Jim to want Spock - not that he really needed them, Jim probably would have wanted Spock even without all the good reasons.

So he really should have expected the breaking point to come up eventually, but he was _James Tiberius Kirk_. Of course he could deal with this. At least, that's what he thought.

Until the Gaelar mission. Actually, until the _end_ of the Gaelar mission, after it's successful completion which so inspired the Gaelars that they decided to throw what was essentially a ball in celebration of the newest diplomatic success; namely, their decision to join the Federation.

It was a decent enough ball, Jim supposed – everybody dressed up all fancy, his crew in their dress uniforms (Jim felt a swell of pride at how magnificent all that braid looked under the glittering lights; his crew was a _damn fine_ crew), soft, glittering lights floating about the air above their heads, courtesy of excellent Gaelar technology. There was excellently prepared food, and sweet, lovely music playing with beautiful people dancing wonderfully to it.

And all Jim could think about was Spock. The Vulcan First Officer, gliding through the crowds so easily, so steadily and smoothly, as if he were one of the twirling figures on the dance floor himself – and the image of Spock dancing just about broke Jim. The human Captain tugged surreptitiously at the collar of his dress jacket, trying to relieve some of the heat that inevitably generated whenever Spock cross his mind (which was _all the damn time!_) and that had only increased at the image of his stoic First Officer actually dancing.

Oh God, did Jim want to see Spock dance. Or just dance with Spock. Yeah, dancing with Spock would be nice. Hell, it'd be more than nice – Jim was almost sure he would just about spontaneously implode, now, if he could dance with the Vulcan.

Either that, or immediately regress to a caveman and throw Spock over his shoulder and then run away to ravish the man, and oh how _badly_ Jim wanted to ravish him and –

_Must not think that way about the First Officer,_ Jim reminded himself sternly, shifting his feet in an effort to refocus his attention. It was a noble attempt, but a futile one. He was rather used to essentially obsessing over Spock constantly, anyways.

Which made it kind of odd and almost funny that he didn't immediately notice The Danger.

Spock had been circulating the gathering like an exemplary guest and Star Fleet Officer, chatting politely with their hosts and the rest of the crew, with Jim constantly aware of his location and current conversational partner.

So the fact that Jim had almost missed the Gaelar ambassador _flirting_ with Spock was slightly concerning to the human man – but only as a secondary concern. His first concern was the blinding surge of possessiveness that had descended upon him, until he fairly seethed with the urge to go over to the two, haul Spock behind his own body and just shout, _DON'T TOUCH HIM, HE'S MINE!_ at the top of his lungs. Or something else suitably human and illogical and completely embarrassing to his First Officer.

No. Jim would be a good Captain. He _would_. He would keep his hands to himself – he wouldn't drag Spock off somewhere and leave indelible and unmistakable marks of a claim; he wouldn't march over there and slam his fist into the Gaelar dignitary's face; he wouldn't walk over and interfered; if Spock wanted the Ambassador, Spock could have the Ambassador, and Jim would be perfectly fine with that, he really would –

"Ah, Mr. Spock! My apologies, Ambassador, but may I borrow my First Officer for a few moments?"

Now when the hell did he cross the room?

"Of course, Captain," the Ambassador said with a short bow, though her eyes remained focused on Spock. "Perhaps we shall meet again, good sir?" she suggested, and most likely Spock would have responded politely in the positive if Jim hadn't simply fastened his hand around the curve of Spock's elbow and turned to steer the other man out of the ballroom and into one of the surrounding corridors.

That, of course, earned him an upraised eyebrow, and Jim really shouldn't have been turned on by that, but he was, so he'd deal with it. And since Jim was essentially constantly half-hard at the very least whenever he was in the Spock's presence, what else did it matter that he found his First Officer's eyebrows so damn sexy?

"Captain," Spock said, and _shit_, that went straight to Jim's cock, and he descended just a little bit further into mindless possessiveness, because damned if he never wanted to hear anyone else but Spock call him Captain. If Jim couldn't have Spock in all the ways he was wanting to, then by God at the very least he would own this much of the Vulcan. "I must protest, and question your actions as to why you would deem it necessary to remove me from the gathering; the Ambassador and I were having a most interesting discussion of the differing politics between Star Fleet and the Gaelar planet."

And at that, Jim finally understood what was meant by the cliché phrase 'he saw red.'

Without thinking – and without warning – Jim bent at the waist, taking a step forward and straightening up as he continued forward so that when he was completely upright once more, his First Officer was also draped over his left shoulder like a living blanket. Immediately, Jim started forward, heading down the hallway towards the private rooms granted to the crew by the Gaelars. His own rooms were down there, somewhere, and it seemed that his caveman side had finally taken over.

Spock, meanwhile, had gone as stiff as a board for several moments. It was not every day that one's Captain tossed his First Officer over his shoulder. It was also an added distraction to have his Captain's thoughts come through, even as muffled as they were by the layers of clothing between them. There was one bright spot of contact, though; Spock's lower back, where his dress uniform jacket had ridden up – or down, depending on how you viewed it at the moment – and where Jim's hand rested to steady his burden, to keep the Vulcan man from sliding off his shoulder – or escaping.

"Captain," Spock managed after several moments of stunned silence and immobility, "I must demand you cease such actions and release me at once. Such activity is inappropriate for a Star Fleet Captain."

"Shut up, Spock."

"Captain, you are acting illogically, and most unreasonably," Spock said, this time with the slightest hints of embarrassment coloring his voice. "Put me down, sir."

He began to struggle then, twisting and pushing upon Jim's shoulder in an attempt to free himself. Jim responded with a growl and a swift slap to Spock's bottom.

"Stop struggling!"

Both the slap and the growl stunned Spock into silence and immobility once more, and Jim took advantage of the brief respite to quicken his pace; he could see the door to his rooms just ahead, all her had to do was get Spock through the door…

Spock, however, was apparently not stunned enough by Jim's responses and began to struggle in earnest now, forcing Jim to actively work to hold the man captive. Especially when he felt long Vulcan fingers searching on his neck – Jim remembered the feel of those fingers from before, just before blackness consumed him (and then later revealed the terrible, blank whiteness of Delta Vega). Jim shook his shoulders, forcing Spock to clutch at his Captain's midsection so as not to fall off and disgrace himself.

And by that point, they were through the door to Jim's rooms, and the Captain was kicking the door shut. He marched straight to the center of the room, which was dominated by the bed.

The bed was a huge thing, and straight out of a dream. And Jim had had some dreams about this bed while he'd used it the last few weeks, and now he planned to put them into action.

Jim paused, now holding Spock draped over both shoulders like a scarf – after shaking his shoulders, he had reached back with his right arm to grab both of Spock's so as to prevent him from trying the Nerve Pinch again. Now, safely ensconced in his own room, the last vestiges of possessiveness that Jim had managed to hold back began to pull out of his control.

Jim tossed Spock onto the bed, and watched with satisfaction as his normally composed and stoic First Officer actually _bounced_ on the mattress, his hair flying every which way, a beautiful green flush staining his cheekbones and ears. Of course, the moment Spock hit the bedcovers he was scrambling to get off, to dash and reach the door – but Jim was faster. He barked out the override lock code, the one he knew could only be undone by the vocal match to whomever had invoked it. The Gaelars had some interesting security technology…

Spock halted at the door, hands resting on the knob.

Jim said nothing. He simply waited.

"Captain," Spock said finally, "once again I must demand that you let me go. Your actions have no reasoning behind them; you are behaving even more illogically than usual."

Spock hoped – and at this moment, he did not much care if true Vulcans hoped or not – that the Captain would listen to him, would take in the illogicality of this situation, the sheer nonsense, and take action to stop this madness from continuing any further.

Unfortunately, the sinking sensation in his stomach made Spock 65.3478% sure that such a thing would not be in the list of probably scenarios.

"Spock," was all Jim said, and Spock's ears caught the _click-thmp_ sound of his Captain's boots as the man stepped forward. Spock immediately whirled around and edged to one side, his face as stiff and impassive as possible.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Jim continued, and Spock eyed him warily. There was an unfamiliar expression in the Captain's eyes; intense and hooded, dark and focused solely on Spock. It was the absolute intensity that threw Spock off for a few moments before he recognized the emotion in his Captain's eyes – pure, unadulterated lust, dosed liberally with possessiveness and yet, despite the obvious aggression of those emotions the Vulcan was almost certain he also saw tenderness in that gaze…

"Captain, you have carried me off in a most unbecoming manner, and are refusing to let me leave. What else am I to assume but that you mean me harm of some sort?" Spock said, continuing to edge away as Jim paced closer.

"I would never hurt you," Jim repeated, his voice soft and low, yet earnest and reassuring, as if speaking to some frightened, skittish animal. In a distant part of his mind, Spock could not fault the Captain for his logic in that choice of voice tone – indeed, Spock truly was beginning to feel like that cornered animal the Captain was speaking to.

"Then let me leave, Captain," Spock said, testing the waters.

Jim actually snarled at the suggestion. "_No._"

"Captain – "

"You can't leave me," Jim interrupted, and there was the vaguest hint of desperation at the bottom of his tone, but mostly it was layered with lust and a tender possessiveness. "No, Spock, you can't go."

"Captain, I must insist."

"No, Spock," Jim said with a shake of his head.

"Captain, there is no logic apparent in this venture of yours. I must assume that you are, then, under the influence of something."

"Spock, I'm absolutely fine. Just… come here."

"Once again, I must decline." Spock took a few steps more, placing the bed between himself and his Captain. "You are in need of medical aid, Sir, and not my presence. If you will release me, I will – "

"Spock, are you… afraid of me?" Jim asked suddenly, pausing in his slow stalking of Spock. He had been gliding across the floor towards Spock, matching the other man's every movement. The bed was still between them now, but that distance could be easily covered – Spock knew how fast Jim was, now.

"Fear is an unnecessary emotion sir. I am Vulcan. I will admit to being concerned for you in this state – "

"Spock, you don't have to be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you," Jim said once again, firmly.

"Captain – "

And apparently Jim had reached his limit for talk, because there was something of a soft growl before the Captain darted forward. Spock jumped to one side, avoiding the outstretched arms, and immediately leaped the bed to the other side – but Jim was turning around, heading back around the bed. As soon as his feet hit the ground, Spock was off again.

They darted around the tables, circled around chairs, dashed past each other and leaped corners of the bed until finally Jim corned Spock at the door. With an exasperated sound – that still managed to come out as a possessive snarl – Jim scooped the Vulcan into his arms, bridal style, cradling the other man close to his chest. Spock struggled for a few moments, still determined to free himself and summon the medical aid his Captain so obviously needed, but there was no escape. Jim's arms merely tightened, and Spock realized with a sinking sensation – and an odd, tingling thrill – that the Captain truly was stronger than him.

Spock braced himself for whatever would happen next, unsure of what his Captain would do under the influence of whatever had been given to him. The flickers of anger filled the very back of his mind, that someone would something like this to his Captain, strip him of his control and mind.

Jim carried Spock back to the bed, but instead of tossing the man into the middle of the mattress again, he settled them both down on the edge, Spock still cradled in Jim's arms. Spock noted that though the Captain was employing a very firm hold, he was attempting not to cause undue pain or discomfort. In fact, had it been under any other circumstances, such a position might actually be quite comfortable and enjoyable – and Spock immediately discarded that thought. It was not the time for such things.

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_TBC_

Will There be Hot, Possessive Man-Sexin'?

Find out next episode! Same channel, same time!

_Reviews make the author happy, and happy authors write more!_


	5. five

Finally, chapter 5! or, Spock Gets Into a Fight With a Clue-By-Four.

Adfkfgjadfjg, I keep making y'all wait. But you've been so supportive with the reviews; thank you so much!!

Also, apparently the ice-beast is called a Hengruggi (or something like that). Why was this not available information when I started writing this thing??

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**Itia Monstrum**

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And then Spock's thoughts were derailed by a warm breath on his ear; followed by damp heat surrounding the tip, and sharp teeth nibbling gently on the edges. A silent gasp escaped Spock's throat, his lips just barely falling open in a soundless breath at the reaction that thrilled through him at those sensations and textures. Not to mention the swirling emotion transmitted through the touch – burning, driving lust, and fiery possessiveness, but also a dominating tenderness and affection 0 and something deep within them all that Spock could not just yet identify and that moved to just outside his comprehension. The potent combination of those all served to render the Vulcan essentially immobile for a time, and when he finally returned to his own mind, Spock found himself laid out on the silky duvet of the bed with Jim sprawled all along the length of him.

It was disconcerting, for a moment, to take into full account the new physical changes in his Captain. Spock had been aware, distantly, of the obvious differences, such as the Captain's growth spurt, and his speed, but to truly acknowledge that his Captain was now, essentially, bigger than he himself... It was almost disturbing to be smaller than a man who was biologically more fragile, regardless of strength or speed.

His mind briefly cleared, Spock made a motion as if to dislodge the Captain – only to find himself pressed down into the bed. A disgruntled noise escaped the Vulcan's throat, and his hands quickly came up towards Jim's shoulders, ready to grasp them and physically force the two of them apart.

Once again, though, Spock found himself at the mercy of Jim's 'improvements' as the Captain snagged Spock's wrists and pinned them, over Spock's head, to the bed. Jim raised his head form where he had been mouthing Spock's neck, and smirked at the pinned Vulcan.

"Now that wouldn't be any fun," Jim all but purred. "Can't have you running away!"

"Captain – "

And Jim cut Spock off with the soft press of lips to lips, the kiss beginning chaste and gentle and rapidly growing to mess of possession and resistance; tender dominance and a refusal to submit. Spock did not think to break the kiss at first, surprised by the contact – and his own reaction to it. His belly tightened, low in his abdomen, and he could feel his own heart rate pick up (4.63485%, he calculated absently). It was when Jim growled into his mouth that Spock returned once more to his senses, and he wrenched his face to the side, breathing slightly heavier than normal.

Jim, though, was not deterred. He simply moved on to other places, his mouth trailing over the arch of Spock's cheek to the small dip just before Spock's ear, along the line of his jaw, down the length of his throat... Spock struggled again though his movements were somewhat less coordinated or as strong as they had been previously.

Could it be possible that whatever had been given to Jim was able to be passed along by skin to skin contact? If so, it could explain the odd lethargy stealing along Spock's limbs (though he did resist; his Captain needed _help_, not acquiescence). However, it also made it all the more imperative that Spock reach medical personnel in order to gain aid for them both.

And yet, once more were Spock's thoughts derailed. This time by the large, warm hand creeping under his shirts, brushing over the flesh of his stomach with roughly calloused skin (though the calluses were just barely starting to soften from months spent in space), and the sudden influx of Jim's emotions.

It was as the hand began to drag upwards, taking Spock's shirt with it, that he began to protest and finally managed to get his wrists free from Jim's grasp. Jim reacted instantly, grabbing Spock's wrists before they could reach his shoulders, and slammed them back against the bed. Spock tried bucking his hips next, twisting his entire body in an attempt to throw Jim off of him, but Jim anticipated every move and countered them, keeping himself firmly on top of the struggling Vulcan.

Finally, with a growl, Jim transferred both of Spock's wrists to his left hand (furthering reinforcing to Spock the fact that Jim truly was stronger), reached down with his right hand, and _yanked_ at the collar of Spock's shirt, ripping the garment easily. The blue fabric fluttered to Spock's sides, revealing the pale, faintly green-tinged skin beneath. Jim stared down at the chest now bared to him, and Spock felt the undeniable urge to squirm and somehow cover himself – and not just because his Captain was under the influence of _something_.

"God, Spock, you're gorgeous," Jim let out on a moan, the desire in his eyes brightening further until he seemed to have coals housed in his eye sockets, glowing the bright blue of the hottest flames. Spock had no time to reply before Jim had swooped down upon one olive nipple, tongue darting out to _flick-flick-flick_ over it, back and forth, drawing it up into a hard nub of sensation that left Spock strangely breathless. And more breath that Spock did not have in his lungs was forced from him as Jim's mouth closed over that same nipple, moist heat sucking just one shade light of painful, teeth barely grazing that sensitive flesh.

"_Fuck_, you smell so good," Jim panted, the hot breath from his mouth wafting over the damp, now highly sensitized skin. He licked once at Spock's nipple again, and the Vulcan felt himself involuntarily arch into the touch, just the slightest bit – and repeated the motion again as Jim switched over to the other, as yet unattended nipple and repeated his actions.

As Jim's mouth busied itself, his free hand wandered the rest of the landscape of Spock's torso, drawing absent-minded shapes upon the flat planes of his pectorals, moving down to circle on the slight ridges of his abdomen. Soft human fingers gently feathered over Spock's lower stomach, and the skin there beneath those fingers trembled, just slightly. Jim's fingers moved towards the slight protrusions of Spock's hipbones, gliding over them and stroking before moving back to his lower stomach. There was a pause of several moments, as Jim's hand continued to gently stroke Spock there and his mouth moved easily across his upper torso.

Then Jim's hand began to snake under the waistband of Spock's regulation-issue trousers, fingers fluttering against even more sensitive skin.

Spock arched upwards, and Jim lifted his head from where it had busied itself again with the Vulcan's nipples to grin victoriously down at the man held beneath him.

"Thought you'd like that," Jim murmured, and there was something animalistic to the words and the tone, yet a thread of tenderness and care worked their ways into his voice, as well. "Come on, Spock, just let go – I'll make it so good for you."

And Jim bent his head, mouthing along Spock's neck now, and the emotions and thoughts that had been feeding into Spock's mind had him in something of a frenzy now, torn between giving in to this whirlwind that was Jim Kirk, and holding out to get the help his Captain _needed_. Though he would hardly admit it, Spock felt the very fringes of panic beat away at the back of his mind – panic that he could not help his Captain, and panic that part of his did not _want_ to help the Captain, but instead wanted this madness to continue. There was a small, deep well of shame in Spock's center that he could feel himself loosening, becoming warm and soft and damp and pliant under Jim's ministrations. And that only added to Spock's panic; he had never yet found someone who would make this special aspect of his biology activate.

So why now? Why his Captain, why Jim?

And why like this?

"Spock, stop fighting me."

Jim's voice broke through Spock's thoughts, brought him back to the present situation. Darkening brown eyes stared up at burning blue eyes, eyes that were both devouring him and trying to comfort him – such a dichotomous attempt...

"Don't fight me, Spock," Jim repeated. "I'm not going to hurt you."

And Jim's grasp on Spock's wrists weakened, and Spock took advantage of that fact – and the tenderness in his Captain's eyes.

He shoved at his Captain with his whole body, finally managing to knock him off and free his arms, and when Jim came right back towards him, Spock swung one fist. He _had_ to do this, he _had_ to get help for his Captain, and then try to figure out why he himself was reacting this way...

Jim caught his fist in one palm, and used that to swiftly tug Spock towards him and back down onto the bed, once more rolling on top of the Vulcan. Only this time, Jim pulled Spock's arms downward, towards his hips, and then Jim planted his knees on Spock's forearms, preventing him form lifting them.

With a determined look on his face, Jim reached for his belt. He unlooped it quickly, easily, and then in a quick motion freed Spock's wrists, grabbed them in one hand as Spock raised them to once more attempt escape, and then Jim bound them in the thick leather of his belt. He took the free end of the belt and looped it around one of the stone slats of the bed's headboard.

"I told you not to fight me, Spock. I just wanted you to relax," Jim said, still perched on Spock's torso.

Spock tugged his wrists, but apparently his strength had deserted him as he was unable to free himself.

"Captain – " Spock began, attempting keep his voice calm and even though he could feel conflicting emotions swirling inside his gut – and oh, how it pricked his Vulcan pride to have to admit to this state affairs – only to be interrupted by a low growl.

"_Jim_."

Spock was silent for several moments, attempting to get his heartbeat and respiratory rate back under control.

"Jim," the Vulcan said quietly, looking up at his Captain. "Jim, please – "

But the Vulcan did not know, in that moment, what he wanted Jim to do. Jim, his Captain, his friend, who was currently out of his mind and straddling Spock's waist. Spock could feel Jim's erection through their clothes, pressing against his pelvis.

Jim looked down at his captive first officer, reaching out with one hand to gently trace Spock's cheek.

"Just relax, Spock." The Vulcan did not reply, but only maintained eye contact. Jim smiled, the corners of lips twitching crookedly. "I can help you relax. It'll be good Spock, I promise."

With those words hanging heavy in the air, Jim slid backwards off of Spock's pelvis, hooking his hands in the waistband of the other's trousers and dragging the pants slowly downwards, taking the regulation briefs off, as well. Spock felt the low burn of shame and embarrassment as his erection was freed from its cloth confines, standing straight and proud, harder than he had ever been before (but he did not want this, not like this, not like this – did he?).

"Cap - " Spock began, but Jim shot him a look, and the Vulcan swallowed, amending his words, "Jim - "

"Shhh, Spock," Jim said gently, but somehow managing to sound commanding and possessive as he reached up to place one finger over Spock's lips. "Don't say anything. Just feel." Jim had yet to take his eyes off the glorious green cock before him, lust heightening in his eyes until they darkened, pupils expanding to the edges of his irises in desire.

"God, Spock, you're gorgeous," he murmured before dipping down to take the head of him in his mouth. Spock's mouth fell open, soundless, as _heat-cool-damp_ engulfed his most sensitive flesh. He should resist, this could not be happening, no, his Captain – his friend – his _Jim_ -

Around him, Jim smiled, humming happily, and Spock's thoughts stuttered to a halt at the vibration, inhaling sharply as his wrists flexed in their bindings (but was he trying to escape? or would he hold that glorious, golden head closer still to him, see how deep he could go?). Spock could not look away from the human, could not tear his eyes from the somehow blisteringly erotic scene playing out before him – but oh, how he tried.

Jim, nestled between the pale, pale thighs, head bobbing contentedly as that wicked mouth hummed, as the cheeks hollowed out with the suction, as his tongue flicked torturously over hot, hot skin…

Spock felt another wet rush of heat flow through him, pooling and trickling down his thighs – it would be impossible, now, for Jim not to notice this, and Spock could not decide, in the far, far reaches of the (barely) working part of his mind, whether he was feeling shame or anticipation.

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_TBC_

Will the two of them _finally_ get on with it and stop teasing us?

Find out next episode! Same channel, same time!

_Reviews make the author happy, and happy authors write more!_


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